My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
I turned and walked out of the conference room before Arthur could cap his pen.
The heavy glass doors of the courthouse opened onto a wide concrete plaza that led down to the main street of Craig. The morning air was thin and sharp, carrying the bitter taste of coal smoke from the railyard three blocks north.
“Olivia, please,” a voice whispered from behind me.
Linda was standing by the heavy bronze handrail, her leather handbag clutched so tightly against her chest that the knuckles of her gloves were white. Her nose was red from the cold, and her eyes darted toward the street where two county trucks were idling at the red light.
“He signed the papers,” I said, stopping on the third step down.
“I know,” Linda said, her whisper trembling as she took a half-step closer to me. “He had to. But the civil lawsuit you filed, the one against his personal accounts, that will take the house in town.”
She paused, waiting for me to speak, but I kept my hands in my pockets and adjusted my mother’s silver watch strap against my wrist.
